


dark daggers, mad kings; little birds, broken things

by azulaahai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sansa's been hurt before and Jon's essentially been brainwashed, aerys is king, all the stark siblings are alive and kickin' together in this, anyway I have too many wip's now, dark!Jon meets dark!Sansa, eventual enemies to lovers if we get that far, i suck, slowburn I suppose, though neither of them is that dark lmao, vague fairytale-ish AU, weird ass assassin AU I found lying around in my drafts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-15 06:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15406623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azulaahai/pseuds/azulaahai
Summary: His directions are clear, and he means to obey them; kill the young wolf who dares name himself king, and suffocate this northern rebellion in it's cradle - or die in the attempt.





	1. prologue // crows and kings

**Author's Note:**

> Found this in my drafts, been meaning to continue this forever now and am hoping to motivate myself to do so by posting haha, so please do let me know what you think! It's just a prologue and I wrote it a while ago, so, yeah.

**T H E   C R O W**

He is going home, in a way, though Jon has never felt more lost.

He has memorized the maps, learnt all the names of the almost-family that he is about to face, has trained to the point that even Arthur Dayne had to name him worthy, said his goodbyes - none of which were very painful, save that of his siblings and Rhaenys' cat, mulled over every aspect of the plan in his head countless times, to the point of boring himself.

Aye, he is prepared.

But that does not mean he's ready.

The courtyard lies deserted as he mounts his horse - there is no one there to wave him off as he goes. He should be relieved, really, that his grandfather has not come, but Aerys' absence is a threat in and of itself, a shadow over the pale spring morning.

A light breeze sweeps across the yard, the chill prickling Jon's skin. 'Go', the winds seems to whisper, ' go, and don't dare come back unsuccessful'.

Jon wouldn't, of course. His directions are clear, and he means to obey them; kill the young wolf who dares name himself king, and suffocate this northern rebellion in it's cradle - or die in the attempt.

* * *

Sometimes he dreams of her - the mother he lost, the mother they never speak of. Dreams so clear and colourful they feel like memories, but of course they aren't, are they? He was a babe when she died, hours old. But the way she holds him in the dreams feels so familiar, so true. Could he really dream that up?

He was older when his father died - not much older, but older.

Grandfather still speaks of him, with a mixture of contempt and despair in his voice.

Yet strangely, Jon never dreams of his father.

* * *

**T H E   L I T T L E   B I R D**

A raven in the night, and here they all are.

"Father would have taken him in." There is a fire in Arya's voice, a fierceness in her eyes. She-wolf. Well, there's two of them.

"A Targaryen son, raised in a Targaryen hall, winds up miles from Winterfell's gates a fortnight after Robb is crowned, and you say we let him among us?” Sansa keeps her composure, her voice controlled, but she feels a rage begin to boil in her veins. She has wolf in her too, but she keeps it in check in a way that Arya does not.

The letter had been elegantly phrased. Too elegantly phrased. Telling the compelling (too compelling) story of a long-lost northern son coming home. Lyanna Stark’s boy with Rhaegar Targaryen, raised by the mad king of the South, has finally escaped his grandfather’s cruel clutches and is returning to his kin in the north.

Sansa believes it not for a minute.

“Would you have us leave him to the cold?” Arya argues, as if Sansa was speaking of a lone pup instead of a potential foreign infiltrator.

“I don’t think dragons can freeze to death”, Sansa snarls.

“It’s not your decision.” Arya clenches her jaw, defiance in those grey eyes.

“Nor is it yours, thank the old gods, lest you’d invite the whole Targaryen house for supper.”

“Enough now, both of you”, Robb says, and there is enough regality in his voice to make both his sisters fall silent, all be it while still exchanging heated looks over the table. The king in the north pauses for a moment, and Sansa’s heart sinks.

She knows her brother - knows what he is about to say before he even draws breath to say it.

“This man is our kin. Aye, there might be dragon in him, but I was raised believing wolf was stronger than dragon.”

Robb looks from Sansa to Arya back to Sansa again when he says the last part.

“Jon is staying.”


	2. watching and seeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her family has greeted him as one of their own, to her hurt and disbelief. Not naïvely so, but Sansa knows them, can see how badly they want to believe his tale.
> 
> And oh, it’s a pretty tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so here's a new short chapter, it's an absolute hot mess but will hopefully take me to a part of the story that I'm actually inspired writing. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the response on the prologue, it's what made me keep this going, I suck at responding to comments but please do keep them coming.

a m o n t h l a t e r

 

**THE LITTLE BIRD**

 

If there’s a particular moment each day during which Sansa’s at her happiest, it’s this. 

 

The sun is setting, she’s atop Winterfell’s walls, the world goes silent and it’s just her, crisp northern air and the view before her. She comes here almost every night, glad for the refuge - she needs it more than ever, now.

 

The Targaryen bastard has been here for little over a month, and Sansa’s more and more unable to shake a tingling sense of unease. Word has spread fast, she knows; northerners and southerners alike are aware of the Targaryen turncloak having run back to the wolf’s den. 

 

Her family has greeted him as one of their own, to her hurt and disbelief. Not naïvely so, but Sansa knows them, can see how badly they want to believe his tale.

 

And _oh_ , it’s a pretty tale.

 

A tale of family, of feeling like a wolf dressed in dragonskin, of horror, and of hope, of coming north and finding home.

 

Exactly the sort of tale she’d have loved a few years ago. In fact, had this Jon _Snow_ had the sense to show up before Joffrey Baratheon, it might have been Sansa who’d have greeted him with open arms. The thought tastes bitter.

 

As it is, Sansa reflects without missing the irony, the situation is panning out to be the exact mirror of the one with Joffrey, but in reverse.

 

Where _Sansa_ was the only one to warm up to the Baratheon boy coming on what was named a diplomatic mission (just how _un_ diplomatic a mission it truly was they would find out much later), _she_ is now the only one keeping her distance to their new sort-of-cousin. 

 

_Sansa_ ’s now the one uttering the same conspiracy theories that she’d snorted at as follies when they were brought up regarding Joffrey Baratheon.

  
It’s strange - they were the ones to warn her of that fire last time, and now that she’s been burned they will not heed her warnings.

 

They’re all too keen to trust this Jon Snow, Sansa would think so even if she was impartial. Arya’s taking to _sparring_ with the man, for god’s sake - giving him weapons, training and excellent opportunities for an ”accidental” murder in a neat, lethal package. Robb insists Snow attends the evening meals where they all gather, and Bran and Rickon jest with him in ways Sansa can’t fully understand.

 

He’s blended in so nicely among them.

So nicely, Sansa almost feels like an outsider.

 

She closes her eyes in the chill of the evening, the sharpness of a cold breeze reminding her of the winter that is to come.

 

**THE CROW**

 

He thinks it must all be a trick.

 

Surely it can not have been this easy. Surely someone will soon jump out and laugh at him for truly believing he could do this, Jon Snow, the sullen, charmless Jon Snow, whom even Rhaenys, sweet Rhaenys, called brooding.

 

Surely they can not be this kind.

 

They have not been foolish, and surprisingly, their security measures feel like a relief. Jon is guarded, day and night, and though most of them have welcomed him like the long-lost cousin he’s claimed to be, there are still watchful eyes upon him as he moves about the castle.

 

Two of them, two blue, suspecting eyes, belonging to the one Stark he has yet to win over.

 

He sees her everywhere - she’s in the library when Bran’s sent him there to find a book, she’s in the courtyard surveying his sparring sessions with Arya in what can only be described as a worried manner, she’s in the stables when he’s allowed to ride out with Bran.

 

She never speaks to him, unless he speaks to her - and he does. Or tries, more like - his clumsy attempts at conversation does little to thaw the glacier between them.

 

He does not know why he seeks Sansa’s approval to the extent he does - clearly, he won’t be in need of her trust to complete the mission - but there’s something that irks him about her disapproving looks and cold silences. 

 

Like she’s the one that sees him for what he truly is, and he must change her perception quickly before she realizes just how truthful her suspicions are.


End file.
